


This Thing You Feel

by hogwartshoney



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Pining, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 22:29:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9260744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hogwartshoney/pseuds/hogwartshoney
Summary: This ... THING... you feel for Potter, it isn't about Lily at all. What you'd felt for her had been gentle and pure, but this, oh, no, this isn't pure at ALL.The way he looksTalksMovesSmellsDear Merlin, how he'd taste...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Untold thanks to my beta/encourager/enabler islandsmoke who has held my hand and encouraged me through writing this, and to charmed310 for the fine-tuning.
> 
> Originally posted to InsaneJournal for Daily Deviant's 2016 Kinky Kristmas gift exchange.  
> http://asylums.insanejournal.com/daily_deviant/678983.html

_“Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.”  
― Margaret Atwood, Der blinde Mörder_  
  
  
  
  
It begins with an owl.  
  
  
The large and impressive Ministry bird comes sailing in through your window, (and that never stops making you just the slightest bit apprehensive). Of course, you cover it up immediately with practiced neutrality, not that there’s anyone there to see you or judge. What does the Ministry want with you, anyway?  
  
  
You shoo the damnable bird away -you don’t keep treats for the bloody things, after all- and open the missive, shaking your head at the extravagant seal and layers of security identification charms when you realize that it’s from Potter.  
  
[](http://imgur.com/SoMAd73)  
  
You remember when he’d joined the Aurors just after the war’s end, had been ushered in with all the pageantry and fanfare of conquering heroes, the lot of them: Potter, Weasley, even Longbottom, Merlin preserve us. You spent much of your convalescence assuring yourself that they’d get no further than the first year, if that, yet, to your great surprise, they all graduated as fully fledged Aurors.  
  
  
Potter had been awarded the post of Head Auror in 2007, amid mutterings of favouritism, but in the twelve years (seven months and twenty-three days, not that you keep count) since the Battle of Hogwarts and subsequently the start of your freedom, Potter has more than earned his stripes. Beyond all odds, he appears to be a success, seems to have matured over that time, and has made quite a name for himself when it comes to threat assessment and both defensive and offensive magic.  
  
  
You take another look at the letterhead.  
  
  
_What’s Potter doing as a Training Advisor?_  
  
  
Potter has been away for many months, according to the papers, and has apparently recently returned, if the screaming headlines in italics of The Daily Prophet are anything to go by.  
  
  
Piffle.  
  
  
Still, it’s rather unusual to receive any kind of correspondence from the man. Whenever you’ve seen each other in the past, usually your interactions with him extend no further than a cordial nod and occasionally “Snape”, quickly followed by “Potter”... and that’s pretty much the way you’ve been happy to have things.  
  
  
Well, not ‘happy’, per se, but it’s safer that way.  
  
  
At first, you’d thought that your fixation on Potter was just a natural after-effect of the war; force of habit and all that. After all, you’d spent most of your life recovering from one Potter or the other, it seemed. You’d considered that maybe it was a holdover from what you’d felt for Lily, but this ... THING... you feel for Potter, it really isn’t about Lily at all. Your feelings for her were gentle and pure, but this... oh, no, this isn’t pure at ALL.  
  
  
You convince yourself that distance is better, that the less you see him, the easier it'd be for you to ignore your wishful desires and renegade thoughts. But Potter is everywhere; scarcely a week goes by without the Prophet hawking him in their headlines, and although you've managed to keep a firm hold on your ridiculousness, there are times when you wonder, in the darkest stillness of night, whether what you feel can be so wrong, whether what you want can be so out of your reach.  
  
  
You tell yourself that you shouldn’t feel this way, not about any of the younger ones, and certainly not- not about _him_.  
  
  
And now… now he wants to see you AT the Ministry.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
The door to Potter’s office stands ajar, and Potter himself sits at his desk, a large structure of dark wood; not quite intimidating, but certainly impressive enough to lend weight to Potter’s new status. He looks up as you enter, flashing a quick smile as he stands and walks around to meet you, extending a hand in greeting.  
  
  
You’re immediately struck by two things…. or, rather, three.  
  
  
He’s somehow become taller, or perhaps he’s simply no longer a boy.  
  
  
He’s lost that slightly haunted look he’d carried around with him for years and in fact seems to have developed into a much more confident man.  
  
  
And…  
  
  
He’s also filled out rather nicely, and his firm handshake only emphasizes the power of his more muscular build and sends a jolt of… something … through you.  
  
  
And damn if that doesn’t make you…. interested.  
  
  
You shake it off despite your body’s immediate reaction because of course you do, you’re not a tittering third year, for the love of Merlin! You carefully put the thought out of your mind as you pull yourself together and take the seat he offers.  
  
  
“Good to see you, Snape, thanks for coming.”  
  
  
Potter’s body language is open and engaging as he returns to his seat.  
  
  
“Your wish, it would seem, is my command, Potter. I scarcely see how I can be of any help to you but your missive was rather brief and lacking in actual detail.”  
  
  
He grins then, suddenly so boyish that you’re struck by how young he looks, and the fact that he never smiled that way as a youth.  
  
  
“Details are for face-to-face discussions, I think, especially in this case. I’ve returned from an extensive tour of Europe and America, brushing up on some things. Of course the press has hounded me and speculated about my absence.”  
  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
  
“It seems that everything I do continues to be newsworthy, even when it isn’t. If they’re not lamenting my lack of proper hair cut it’s my propensity for being too forward thinking and revolutionary and, Merlin forbid, let’s not forget my inability to actually settle down.”  
  
  
“I hadn’t noticed.”  
  
  
Potter’s smile dims slightly and you don’t know why you said that because you like his smile and you _had_ noticed; you notice everything about him. Perhaps it’s because your default reaction to him is defensive; you just don’t know how to _not_ antagonize him. You certainly wouldn't want him to know that you are interested in anything to do with him.  
  
  
“But this! This could become something very newsworthy if I have my way. I’m setting up a new division at the Ministry based on the skills I’ve acquired and the fresh direction I’d like to take the Aurors.”  
  
  
He’s back to being ridiculously enthusiastic, and by the Gods, he’s engaging. “How very progressive.”  
  
  
“Well, I think so. When Ron, Neville and I joined under Kingsley, the place was in a bit of a shambles, and certainly the training was a bit more ad-hoc than in earlier times. We’d managed to muddle through despite that, and you remember the long hard slog for us to go after all the remaining Death Eaters and other unsavoury characters associated with them? Present company excluded, of course…”  
  
  
The old you would have disappeared in an annoyed huff, but you know that _he_ , at least, isn’t looking to antagonize you. In fact, you rather enjoy the way his understated power envelopes him like a cloak, and the boy has finally grown into a man.  
  
  
“...but I feel that the enemy is changing. Not that there’s another Dark Lord approaching or anything, but times have moved on and progressed, and I think that we’re still stuck a bit behind the curve, as it were.”  
  
  
He studies you for a moment, and then seems to come to a decision.  
  
  
“I’d like you to see some of my memories of an incident we had during a recent battle. If- you know, if you’re open to that.”  
  
  
Ah, yes. The subject of ‘memories’ and ‘Potter’ will probably always have a strange intimacy attached to them.  
  
  
You nod, and he gestures you over to a Pensieve which you realize with a shock was Albus’.  
  
  
“I- I hope you don’t mind.”  
  
  
“No, Potter, it’s fine.”  
  
  
Potter already has his wand at his temple, the silvery threads coming thick and bright as he draws his wand away and into the water, the strands swirling gently in the bowl.  
  
  
He makes a furtive motion with his hands, as though you know not how to use a Pensieve, and you lower your face into the bowl without a word.  
  
  
_You drop into the memory to find a firefight in full swing. The scene appears to be the attempted theft of some hazardous potions blacklisted by the Ministry to be destroyed.  
  
  
The opposing force is formidable and extremely fast, but the Aurors perform admirably. You can see that they are a cohesive group; Harry in the middle distance engaged in heated battle with two opponents while a pair of Aurors stand back to back, covering each other and themselves with impressive capability. Another Auror flings himself through the air in a deadly sort of acrobatic manouvre as he dodges spellfire.  
  
  
Before long, the battle wanes, and all opponents lie stunned and bound. Harry stands before one who appears to be the leader, his wand trained at the man’s throat, when one of the other men lets off a curse you’ve not heard before. It appears as a bright blue light, moving quickly outwards in an explosive concussive force. An Auror closest to Harry is quickest to react, and although he manages to get a containment charm around the thing, it soon overpowers him. He tries to angle it away from everyone and up into the air, over the roof line, but he seems to lose his hold on the magic and it erupts, blasting through the corner of a building, destroying two, maybe three floors and sending a cascade of glass and brick raining down everywhere. You look on in dismay as one of Harry’s men disappears under a pile of the falling debris. and even though the others are quick to react in clearing the rubble, they find him unresponsive and bleeding profusely.  
  
  
Harry’s face is deathly pale as he casts the necessary spells to stabilize him while someone sends their Patronus for the Mediwizards..._  
  
  
You draw out of the memory slowly, giving yourself ample time to adjust, but all you can think about is that it could have been Harry who caught that curse or been under that pile of rubble. That thought only serves to amplify the uncomfortable pressure in the centre of your chest.  
  
  
“Did he make it?”  
  
  
Potter nods, seeming relieved. “He was okay. The Mediwizards held him for a week to properly recover and he was on light duty for a month after that, but he’s back on the force.”  
  
  
“That was quite a battle.”  
  
  
He huffs a disappointed breath.  
  
  
“We weren’t prepared. You see what we’re up against now, hybrids of spells and curses. We need to be able to intervene and counteract them, perhaps even subvert them before they take form.”  
  
  
All right, _perhaps_ he has your interest.  
  
  
“Go on…”  
  
  
“So,” he pushes a Muggle file across the desk towards you. “I’d like to introduce a number of new techniques and tactics, and I’d like you on board to offer your knowledge of defensive and offensive spells against the Dark Arts and similar.”  
  
  
“Surely you’re not serious, Potter. Who in their right mind would want that?”  
  
  
“Well, I do, for one, and the Ministry has green-lighted the project and given me full autonomy. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve worked with us.”  
  
  
Your huff of annoyance is genuine; you’ll not forget the way the Ministry had taken its recompense after the War by using your knowledge and skills to root out the remaining Dark Arts practitioners.  
  
  
“I appreciate your faith in your ability to make all of this work, but I can’t imagine that I’ll be well received.”  
  
  
“Now who’s living in the past? Listen, we’ve had more than twelve years of relative peace, which makes life easier to live but also makes warriors soft and reflexes slow. The Aurors need a bit of shaking up - there are new and more evolved threats out there and I need our people to be at least partly ready to face them, should they come.”  
  
  
“What have you heard, Potter?”  
  
  
“Nothing specifically, but you’ve heard of the threats that the Muggle world faces with terrorism and militant and pseudo-militant types popping up. I can’t help but feel that we should also be on the lookout for a higher form of conflict.”  
  
  
Suddenly, you realize… “You’re bored!”  
  
  
“I am _not_ bored, for the love of- Look, I just don’t want anything to fall through the cracks, that’s all, plus I’d like the wizarding world to keep somewhat alongside the Muggle one, at least in this respect.”  
  
  
You’re ridiculously pleased to have struck a nerve, but grant him the grace of acquiescence. “Fair enough. So what do you have in mind?”  
  
  
Potter smiles again, a genuine one, and you promise yourself to try your best not to let that affect you or sway your decision. “Let me show you what I’ve done so far.”  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Potter’s plan has merit, you can grudgingly admit that, and his technical knowledge has certainly broadened his abilities and scope for training.  
  
  
  
  
The first day begins with Potter giving an overview of the course syllabus and an outline of expectations and results.  
  
  
You stand at the back of the room as he gives his speech, your attention focused on the small group of trainees - seasoned Aurors, all of them. No fresh-faced new recruits; not yet, at least. You pay particular attention to their body language as Potter outlines his proposed training methods, and a murmur of surprise ripples through the room when he mentions your name.  
  
  
You stride towards him, making sure that your robes flare just so…and even though you are no longer that Potions Master, there’s not a person in the room who doesn’t remember who you are. A quick study of their faces shows various levels of wariness combined with some skepticism, but surprisingly, no anger, or disdain; no, it seems that the Aurors are more than willing to test their mettle with and on you.  
  
  
So shall it be then.  
  
  
Potter himself cuts quite an impressive picture in his newly-designed training robes, and you’re not above careful inspection and review of same. The material appears soft yet strong, with just the right amount of give at the shoulders to allow for ease of movement, but decidedly more fitted around the waist and thighs. The unsubtle pull in your gut is more than enough to remind you that this is work, not pleasure, even though he _is_ most pleasing; the way he looks… talks… moves...smells.  
Dear Merlin, how he'd taste...  
  
  
He’ll never have the stature of Weasley nor the height of someone like Kingsley or Longbottom, but he’s a surprisingly powerful force to be reckoned with, and as he gestures expansively to emphasize whichever point he’s making, you find yourself almost captivated by the fluidity with which he moves. It speaks to you of a warrior.  
  
  
Before long, it’s time to get down to business. The first exercise is a show of strength, pairs going at each other with non-lethal curses and hexes, counterspells and protective charms, all rather academic and perhaps a bit simplistic, but you know that Potter is looking far beneath the surface of the action. He’s looking for their tells, the way they move and all the possible ways that they can be subverted.  
  
  
“Okay, thank you, everyone. Those drills were accomplished easily enough with all your faculties intact. Certainly, you were able to move well enough, you could see the wand movement and/or hear the spells as they were cast.”  
  
  
“Let’s think about if we were compromised in some way. Obviously we’ve all been through the Ministry’s training and have seen our share of battles and incidents, but specifically, what if we couldn’t see? Not just in the dark, but if a spell or hex were cast and you legitimately could not see, how would our reactions differ in that situation?”  
  
  
“Now Davies and Cooke - one person wears this blindfold, the other talks with me, and let’s run through that again.”  
  
  
The look on their faces is rather comical but they comply readily enough. Potter has a word with Davies while Cooke dons the blindfold, and then he takes them through their paces again, coaching as he circles their area.  
  
  
“Cooke, cast your magic outwards and feel for the spells. Sense his magic as it builds and counter it. Davies, remember to go slowly, let him get an idea of what’s coming.”  
  
  
The rest of the trainees snort as Davies sends a series of Stinging Hexes, and although Cooke is sweating and cursing by the end of it, he manages to block most of them.  
  
  
“The basics of magic is the same. Everyone has their own strength and intent, but the elements of a spell are universal. For example, Wingardium Leviosa is the same, whether cast by a first year or you, the only difference is the power behind it. _That’s_ what I want you to focus on - the elements of the spell. Davies, your turn with the blindfold.”  
  
  
Cooke grins as he hands over the fabric, and Potter speaks with him now in low tones. They square off once again, and soon the crackle of Stinging Hexes abound.  
  
  
“You can feel the spell building as the caster prepares their own magic, and, sure, at first it’s a bit overwhelming trying to do it all; move, identify a spell and prepare your own counter curse, hex or simply block it, but once you get started and train your magic, it becomes so much easier.”  
  
  
“Let’s have Snape give it a try, on me…”  
  
  
The absolute silence is both gratifying and telling. Apparently, the room of Aurors is willing to stand by while an ex Death Eater casts spells at their Head Auror.  
  
  
But…. you’ve discussed this with him and you both agreed to the plan, so now it’s time to bring it to fruition.  
  
  
You step into the circle.  
  
  
“Scared, Potter?”  
  
  
A grin.  
  
  
“You wish”  
  
  
You make sure to smile….. .with just the slightest edge of teeth showing, and he pulls down his blindfold before getting into his ready stance.  
  
  
_Oh, I DO wish…_  
  
  
You cast a standard Stinging Hex, quickly followed by _Levicorpus_ , a Bat Bogey hex, then _Tarantallegra_ and _Brachiabindo_ in rapid succession, and he blocks or dodges them all. There’s an appreciative murmur from the crowd, and Potter grins as he flicks his slightly damp hair back from his eyes. You don’t follow the motion at all. Nope, not you.  
  
  
Then Potter’s moving towards you, raising his blindfold to scattered applause from your audience.  
  
  
“Your turn, Snape.”  
  
  
“What? We’ve not discussed this.”  
  
  
“No, but it’s good to see where everyone is with regard to their talent.”  
  
  
The look you give him would kill a lesser man. “Indeed.”  
  
  
“Scared, Snape?”  
  
  
“Oh, please.” You whip the blindfold from his grip and don it quickly, trying not to notice that it’s still warm from his body’s heat, and it smells faintly of clean sweat and perhaps his cologne or whatever he’s wearing… it’s surprisingly… arousing, but you will not let that distract you.  
  
  
Your sight gone, everything comes into crisper focus. You can hear his breathing as you stretch yourself, reaching out with your magic, tendrils snaking out to test the air between you. The vibration of his magical aura seems so bright in the relative darkness, and your heart races with the power that surrounds him; the way your magic calls to his, as though there’s a harmony there, oddly discordant but no less relevant.  
  
  
In your mind’s eye you imagine a shadowy construct of him, feel his magic as it gathers around him, the almost-image glowing as he casts silently, and your hand moves before you’re aware of it, the counter curse already springing almost unbidden as you send his hex off into the ether, and another, and still another. You’re alarmed at the way your body tingles where his magic approaches you and at the way you feel … alive! You’re feeling quite warm, a bit breathless perhaps, and you haven’t even been moving that much…..  
  
  
But his scent surrounds you, and you FEEL him so clearly…..  
  
  
You’re brought back to yourself and the room in general by the sound of enthusiastic applause, surprisingly from the trainees. Potter’s gaze is somewhat contemplative, and you ask yourself what the hell just happened.  
  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Now that you’re officially one of the trainers for Potter’s elite squad, you’ve been given a space within his office, a sort of anteroom that’s been modified and installed with a desk and two chairs. It’s nothing special, but it affords you access to the comings and goings of his office.  
  
  
Potter always seems to be around. Perhaps you’re hyper-aware of him, (oh, all right, you’ll give it that, you _are_ hyper-aware of him and his movements), but it’s also because he and his ridiculous hair and his Muggle-inspired clothing and his very bright eyes are everywhere.  
  
  
Oh, it’s innocuous enough. A “Morning, Snape” or a “Cup of tea? How about some biscuits?” But his every move pings on your senses in a way that’s both distracting and painfully pleasant.  
  
  
Today, as he addresses the class, his hair looks like he’s just been in the world’s longest fight… or greatest shag. You’d rather you not think of him shagging anyone… that is, anyone other than you.  
  
  
You can’t help but notice, though, how attractive he is whenever he leans over your desk, supporting himself on his closed fists, his shirt sleeves rolled up to past his elbows as he points towards whatever-it-is you were just discussing. Perhaps you’ve taken a turn towards waxing poetic, but you’re enticed by the subtle play of the muscles of his forearms which seem to slide over and against each other as he turns his wrist or gestures.  
  
  
Must. Concentrate.  
  
  
You’re also distracted by the muscles of his neck, every bloody time he loosens his tie and unbuttons the top two buttons of his muggle shirt, there are lines of muscle that your eyes follow covetously, the way they stand out when he turns his head, delineating his neck in sleek ways.  
  
  
You need to avoid this.

  
But he’s everywhere.

  
And obviously you MUST work together.

  
So you try to control your thoughts, but it’s difficult during training or even pre-discussions of what or how to teach the class. Your body tingles when he casts spells, the more powerful or complicated they are, the more amplified your reactions. You startle when he calls your name, especially when you are concentrating on something.  
  
  
You seek solace at home, where at least you have the illusion of distance, although that’s merely physical; he still occupies your thoughts despite your best attempts to engage in other activities.  
  
  
You’ve resolutely resisted wanking, but tonight you’re wound so tightly that there’s nothing for it. You’d left the office early after sitting through an exhausting session of multi-layered spell casting and deflection.  
  
  
Potter was resplendent, moving with such speed and accuracy that you were hard pressed to look anywhere else. Poor choice of words, as the backlash of his casting had you in such an aroused state that you had to excuse yourself, using the Floo to get home rather than risk splinching yourself. You’re just so bloody unhinged just being near him.  
  
  
You collapse onto your couch, trousers gone, turgid prick already in hand, eyes closed as you stroke yourself, picturing the way he cast spell after hex after charm at the trainees, moving with a breathless grace that would have had you wanting him even if you weren’t also affected by his magic.  
  
  
His face was flushed, and the sound of his breathing had sent your mind in directions that were wholly inappropriate then, but which you gladly revisit now with a groan as you roll the palm of your hand over your cockhead, the slick friction making you arch into your hand with shuddering breaths.  
  
  
Merlin, he looked good. He always looks so good, walking through the Ministry with a commanding air and purposeful stride, the very picture of a take-charge attitude, his outer robes flowing behind him much as yours had done.  
  
  
Merlin! but _WHY_ does he wear those form-fitting Muggle suits? It’s bad enough that you have to admire the way the trousers accentuate the curve of his arse, which they do, SO perfectly, but the waistcoat that hugs his torso just so, with its six buttons, and _the last button is always undone, giving you a glimpse of his belt and the top of his waistband, for the love of Merlin..._  
  
  
You thrust into your closed fist and think of the way Potter stands with his two hands thrust deeply into the front pockets of said trousers, pulling the fabric tight across the zipper and emphasizing his quite reasonably-sized bulge-  
  
  
NO. Best think of something else.  
  
  
It’s too late. You come without consciously meaning to, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, watching with almost detached fascination as you spill furiously over your hand, legs, Merlin, even the _floor_.  
  
  
You haven’t come this hard in years.  
  
  
You should be mortified that you’ve just wanked over Harry Potter, but you’re not. You sigh as you cast a Cleaning Spell on yourself and your surroundings, slumping back against the couch and resigning yourself to the fact that you may very well be wishing for something that will never happen.  
  
  
You’ve had crushes before: Lily, Lestrange (briefly) and even Lupin for a while, but none are in the same galaxy as what you feel for Potter, nothing in your life has ever had you feeling so charged, so electrified, and frankly, had you so wrong-footed. You’re tired of fighting the way you feel, and at 50 years old and having survived two wars, maybe it’s time to allow yourself a little leeway. Forgive yourself a little.  
  
  
Maybe it’s time to heal.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Your evening’s calm is shattered by a loud urgent knocking at the door that almost makes you spill your tea. There’s no need to enquire who it is - Potter’s tumultuous magical signature screams his presence even though the solid wooden door.  
  
  
He bursts in the moment you turn the knob, and you can easily assess that he is fresh from a battle; the very scent of spell fire and hexes still surround him. He really is most captivating like this, his face flushed with excitement and the telltale gleam of battle-induced adrenaline-fuelled high that never goes away, no matter how seasoned a veteran one might be. You surreptitiously look him over for any obvious injuries as he steps in close and clasps you on the shoulders.  
  
  
“Severus! We’ve done it!” he all but shouts, shaking you in emphasis. “We’ve had our first battle!”  
  
  
You hadn’t heard about it - of course not, you’re not a part of the Aurors-, but your energy spikes along with his. It’s impossible not to be affected by the sheer force of him.  
  
  
“And? How did ‘we’ do?”  
  
  
“They were brilliant! Langdon and Shaw held the perimeter with that modified Anti-Disapparation Spell we’d worked on, you remember?”  
  
  
You nod. It’s a particularly inventive version of a Stealth Spell that Potter’d developed after battle simulation exercises with the Americans. They’d been impressed that he thought of it on the fly, but clearly they had no idea of Potter’s innate magical potential. Just the thought of it sends a pleasurable frisson down your spine.  
  
  
“That’s- excellent, Potter.” _Dear lord, could you sound any more inane? Concentrate, damn you, listen to his words, stop looking at his mouth…_ and with effort you drag your thoughts back to what he’s saying.  
  
  
“-took them long enough to realize that they couldn’t leave! You’d think they’d at least be more in-tune with their own surroundings, but I guess they were too busy layering Detonation Spells around that safe.” His eyes are shining, and you realize that he’s still got a hold of you, standing rather close...  
  
  
“Either way, Davies used your Langlock Hex on the lot of them and the standard Magical Dampening Charm was enough to contain the situation.”  
  
  
He’s _still_ standing close, his hands have slid down your arms from shoulders to elbows and he’s grasping them firmly. There’s a pause as he stops for breath, his eyes still shining with excitement, and you think that you should do something about the way he’s touching you but wonder whether you actually _want_ him to stop. Your body certainly doesn’t want him to, your cock in particular has taken keen interest in the proceedings.  
  
  
“I had to come straight over to tell you.”  
  
  
Merlin, that just makes you harder, and you thank the founders that your robes hide the evidence. “You could have sent your Patronus.”  
  
  
“Oh, I- Um… no.” His furrowed brow speaks volumes, and why is that so attractive? “Unless… “ his eyes widen in surprise? Shock? Perhaps embarrassment? “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he says, looking around furtively. “I didn’t even ask before barging in, there could have been- do you have someone here? Why didn’t you stop me? Should I go?”  
  
  
He looks so awkward and not a little mortified, and you allow yourself the smallest huff of amusement at his discomfort before putting him out of his misery. Yourself, not so much.  
  
  
“No, Potter, I am alone and you are therefore not interrupting anything other than my peace and quiet.”  
  
  
You can see him mulling that over, then he’s flashing you a roguish grin that you secretly covet. There’s a slight dip of his eyelashes as he takes a deep breath.  
  
  
“Okay, that’s great. Thank goodness, wouldn’t have wanted to, you know, get in the way of…. anything.”  
  
  
He nods, and you nod, and you know from your own experiences with conflict and battle that he’s calming down after his adrenaline-fuelled high.  
  
  
“I’ve some pork pies - you should eat something.” You know the signs well, and Potter’s going to crash soon enough.  
  
  
Another large breath, this one almost a sigh.  
  
  
“Okay.”  
  
  
You wave Potter towards your table and he sinks into one of the high-backed chairs as you place a glass with some mulled cider and the pie in front of him. You resolutely don’t listen to his soft moan of gratitude as he digs into the food.  
  
  
“This is _really_ good. I hadn’t realized until this moment how famished I am. Thanks.”  
  
  
You study him as he makes quick work of the food, noting the signs of exhaustion that shadow his face. He has been training with the team as well as working long hours with you fine-tuning his instructions so as to focus more on the weak points of each Auror. You look your fill at the way his hands hold the utensils with careful precision and you think of those hands doing different things, to you and with you, the care and attention he’d take, all focussed on you...  
  
  
You know that you’re allowing your mind to go down paths it shouldn’t, paths that can’t amount to anything, that will bring only disappointment. You’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.  
  
  
Potter finishes eating as your mind wanders, his expression almost beatific as he leans back in the chair, his head rolled to the side and looking at you with a slightly glassy eyed expression. You pause - you’ve never been on the receiving end of a look like that. It’s quite a sight.  
  
  
“I looked for you, you know, in our office. When we first got back, or, well, after we’d secured the prisoners and the others had gone home, but you weren’t there. And I just- I wanted to let you know how it went.”  
  
  
“I see.”  
  
  
“Why weren’t you there?”  
  
  
“Potter, it’s past eleven. At night.”  
  
  
“Hmm? Oh lord, is it that late!!? I’m _so_ sorry, I’d best be going.”  
  
  
You don’t bother to roll your eyes only because it would do no good; the intended audience is currently attempting to stand.  
  
  
“Potter, I doubt you’d make it ten steps, and you can’t Apparate.”  
  
  
His smile is slow and lazy. “Well, I _can_ , you know, _technically_ , but I’d probably best not. M’not drunk, you know, just… just tired. And comfortable.”  
  
  
“I think you’d be more comfortable in a bed, Potter.”  
  
  
“Yours?”  
  
  
_Oh, how you wish!_  
  
  
“Come on, I’ll Floo with you just to make sure you get home safely.”  
  
  
Potter grumbles but you manage to get both of you to the fireplace. You throw the powder in and put your arm around his shoulder, shifting him against you while moving closer to the flames. He seems to gather his wits enough to wrap his arm around your waist as you say, quite clearly, “Harry Potter’s house.”  
  
  
You’re through in a matter of seconds, and even though you prepare to brace him in case he stumbles, he’s reasonably steady on his feet.  
  
  
“Thanks. Perhaps that cider affected me a bit more than I’d thought.”  
  
  
He doesn’t release you right away, though he turns so that you’re face to face, and now there’s almost no space between you. Instead, he pats you on your shoulders, slides a hand down your chest, pauses over your heart. You hope he can’t feel it thundering inside your chest, and you try not to move, unwilling to break this very fragile moment of whatever’s happening. You’ve wanted him so powerfully for so long...

  
_You’re projecting, you MUST be projecting because it’s surely not what it seems._  
  
  
“You all right to get to bed, Potter?”  
  
  
He looks you dead in the eye and flashes an almost-smile. “Did you want to help?”  
  
  
Now that’s an opening if you’ve ever heard one, because _yes, you want to do many things, including help-_. You swallow and your throat is tight as you ask, softly. “Do you... _need_ help?”  
  
  
He sighs and looks away. “Sometimes I don't know what I need.”  
  
  
Just like that, the moment is broken. He pulls away and you’re able to step back and put some distance between you and him and whatever might have happened.  
  
“Get to bed, Potter. Rest is the only help you need.”  
  
  
*****  
  
  
The graduation ceremony for the first class of recruits is loud and joyous, as though being perched on the very cusp of Christmas merriment isn’t more than enough to be going on with.  
  
  
You must say that you’re quite proud of your and Potter’s results - the team has come together nicely into a decent fighting unit, and if the Minister has his way, there will be more.  
  
  
Davies and Harrison are the first to greet you, shaking your hand enthusiastically.  
  
  
“Snape, great to see you here!”  
  
  
“Congratulations, gentlemen.”  
  
  
Harrison gestures to the room in general. “Didn’t think Potter was serious about having new things to teach us, you know, but I certainly am glad he proved me wrong.”  
  
  
Davies nods. “There’s a whole other dimension to our magic that we never even knew or thought about. Gods, the way you and Harry use your magic to interact with and strengthen each other is amazing! Are you two going to be teaching us how to do that next?”  
  
  
“I must say I had my doubts about you, Snape. Not to beat around the bush, but the history between you and Potter - historically, not good.”  
  
  
He turns to gesture with his glass in Potter’s direction “But, you’ve both certainly shown that if you two can get together, then anyone can.”  
  
  
_Get together!”_ For a moment, you go utterly still, hastily reviewing what he’d said and wondering at any possible inflection. If these two had noticed anything then who’s to say the rest of the squad hadn’t, and if that gets back to Potter-  
  
  
Who is at this very moment looking up from his conversation with some no doubt Very Important People. He nods and raises his glass in your direction; Davies and Harrison return the gesture, and you follow mutely a moment later.  
  
  
Shaken, you barely register the pat on the back and words of departure as the two men take their leave, and you’re left to consider that you hadn’t been as stealthy as you’d have liked. Decades of training in that particular skill have clearly gone to pot in the presence of one man.  
  
  
Potter himself walks from group to group with a ready smile and earnest handshakes. You covetously watch him in the crowd, and whereas once upon a time you'd have been the first to shrink from being in too-close proximity to this many people, the past few months have shown you a different side of yourself. You’re extremely skilled at reading people, and his body language so eloquently says that he’s proud of his Aurors.  
  
  
You continue to meet his eye occasionally across the room, and there’s a certain almost-amusement in his gaze. You keep him in your sight as you wander along the periphery of the room, never close enough to speak but still, there’s that connection that you feel. You think he feels it too.  
  
  
You’ve been half-hard for most of the evening due to the sight of Potter in his dress robes which fit so very nicely. You’re in favour of the modern slim cut, the robes themselves more along the lines of Muggle coats than the traditional robes. The way they follow the lines of his shoulders and torso, then flare open at the front, showcasing his strong legs clad in black leather. It’s an arresting sight.  
  
  
He pauses at the dessert table and you watch your fill as he takes a bite of eclair, laughing at his companion as some of the cream oozes out onto his corner of his mouth. You want to lick it off so badly you’re almost moved into action, only your cast iron will and the assembled crowd prevent you from doing just that.  
  
  
He swipes at it with his thumb and looks up, happening to make eye contact with you just as he sucks it into his mouth. You have to turn away, your cock so hard that you risk coming in your trousers.  
  
  
After that, you need a break, seeking refuge in your and Potter’s office and stand at the window for several minutes looking at the falling snow and trying to find some sort of peace.  
  
  
Soon enough, Potter finds you, breaking into your thoughts with his youth and vigour and energy.  
  
  
“Severus! There you are - is everything all right?”  
  
  
“Perfectly all right, Potter.”  
  
  
He joins you at the window, and it’s all you can do to stop your body’s desire to lean towards him and his warmth as he turns his head towards you with a smile.  
  
  
“Too much merriment for you?”  
  
  
You don’t know how to answer him, don’t know how to address this burning tumultuous feeling inside that’s all because of him.  
  
  
“The masses were more than occupied with the belle of the ball.”  
  
  
He makes an exasperated sound and turns to face you fully, and you want to just silence yourself, shut down the unhappy and unloved parts of you that seem to want to sabotage whatever happiness you can try to find.  
  
  
“Would you do something for me?”  
  
  
“Don’t I already do enough for you?”  
  
  
He laughs, a gentle, almost hesitant-sounding thing and pats the tall back of his chair.  
  
  
“Have a seat.”  
  
  
“What, in your chair?”  
  
  
“Indulge me…”  
  
  
And oh, wouldn’t you love to do just that, but you merely raise an eyebrow and lower yourself into his chair. He crosses his arms and rests one hip against the edge of his desk.  
  
  
“We’ve had a good run with the training, wouldn’t you say? We’ve managed to do what I set out to do with great success, thanks in no small part to you.”  
  
  
You nod, knowing that he’s satisfied with the endeavour - he’d hinted at it during training and in post-training debriefs, but to have him come out and say it _to_ you… you’re oddly flattered.  
  
  
“Yes, certainly things turned out the way you’d envisioned.”  
  
  
“We make a good team, you and I.”  
  
  
“I scarcely think we constitute a team-”  
  
  
He talks over you as though still lost in his own thoughts.  
  
  
“But I’d like to clarify some things from the early days of our training.”  
  
  
“Clarify.”  
  
  
“Yes. I remember that you reacted quite... significantly to the blindfold exercise during training on our first day.”  
  
  
You’re so distracted by your body’s reaction to his proximity and the heat of him that it takes you a moment to parse his meaning, and even then, you aren’t sure where he’s leading the conversation.  
  
  
“Yes…” You try to make it a question, even though it isn’t, not really.  
  
  
He shifts a bit closer to you, crossing and re-crossing his legs almost nonchalantly.  
  
  
“And you also seemed… ‘affected’, shall we say, by the multi-part attack scenario drills that we ran back in October.”  
  
  
_Dear Merlin, must he bring that up? Your cheeks still burn at the memory of you, crouched behind a large rocky structure, trying desperately to calm the throbbing of your cock as your body virtually sang in response to his magic while he stood mere feet away, casting Shield and Invisibility spells over you both so that you wouldn’t be detected by the trainees.  
  
  
Maintain calm….. You must maintain-_  
  
  
“Can you still feel me? The way you did then?”  
  
  
_Oh, Merlin…_ You can’t answer that….. Don’t want to give anything away, even though you long for him to …  
  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean, Potter.”  
  
  
“Close your eyes.”  
  
  
“Potter, what-”  
  
  
“Severus,” he murmurs. “Close them, and feel me.”  
  
  
You relent, let him have his way, at least for now. You close your eyes and listen to him breathe as you once more let your mind’s eye take shape of him, of his magic as he circles you.  
  
  
There’s no danger - far from it, and your entire body reaches for him, your skin almost feeling as though it grows, expands, your nerve endings stretching out into the air, trying to lessen the distance between you.  
  
  
You can feel a shift in the magic as he comes towards you, and you’re already so hard just from the anticipation of whatever this is.  
Your mental image of him is red and vibrating, almost flowing, like a phoenix on burning day, and you try to calm yourself with shuddering breaths.  
  
  
“Your magic-”  
  
  
“Keep your eyes closed, and… please don’t hex me.”  
  
  
Then there’s warmth, his body close to yours, and you want to arch into it, arch into the sensation of his magic calling yours. It’s exquisite, almost painful, the intensity of the feeling, no doubt fuelled by his magical power and force, but also by the harmonious infinity of your magics combined.  
  
  
And yet, here you are, still seated as he stands above you. He’s moved in even closer, forcing you to spread your knees a little more so that he’s bracketed by your legs, the full length of him radiating a kind of heat that has you yearning to touch him. You hesitate for a moment before carefully sliding your hands behind his knees and up the back of his thighs, pulling him towards you with the slightest pressure. He comes easily, spreading his legs and positioning one knee between yours on the seat of the chair, right up against your straining cock. You can’t help but push against it as you move your hand upwards, feeling the heat of him and cupping his arse cheek while the rest of your senses drink him in, his smell, the sound of his breathing and the way his body feels against yours. You tilt your face up towards him, still ‘seeing’ him in all his magical aura.  
  
  
He runs the pad of his thumb along your lower lip, the not-quite-calluses catching on your dry skin, electrifying arcs of pure sensation scatter over your body and you can’t help the low and embarrassing sound of _want_ that escapes.  
  
  
“Lick.”  
  
  
A full-body shudder passes through you, so powerful that you halt your rubbing against him, clenching your hands around him, worried for a moment that you’re going to come untouched. You hesitate long enough that he presses more firmly against your bottom lip, pulling it down and opening your mouth to him. You touch the tip of your tongue against his flesh and your senses explode, the dark and heavy notes of ink and magic mixing with the bright and heady taste of cinnamon from the eclair he’d been eating only minutes ago.  
  
  
_Fuck, and the way he’d eaten it too, as though he knew you were watching his every move._  
  
  
Maybe he did.  
  
  
And now you want to taste all of him.  
  
  
Suddenly he’s moving away, pulling back from you, shaking his head, muttering.  
  
  
“No, can’t do this, can’t take _advantage_ of you like this…. Merlin!”  
  
  
You emerge as if from a daze, eyes opening slowly, mind so lust-soaked that it takes a regrettably long time for you to parse what’s happening, that he’s backing off, trying to leave, and you quickly grab a handful of his robes, hauling him around to face you. It’s a simple enough move to stop him in his tracks, and now you’re the one to cage him in, backing him up against his desk and blocking his escape with your body.  
  
  
“Where are you going?” You’re gratified that your voice is steady, hopefully betraying nothing.  
  
  
His worried look speaks volumes, and he’s clearly agitated, but you know that you’ve read the situation exactly right. He wants you… maybe he’s moving away now out of fear of rejection or something similar, but he did make the first move.  
  
  
Now it’s your turn, and you’ll not waste it. You grab another fistful of his robes and pull him close, taking his lips in a kiss that feels as though you’ve waited forever to have. You make an embarrassingly undignified sound but don’t care, he’s moaning into your mouth as his arms come around your waist, his body pushing against yours.  
  
  
After what must be forever, you break apart for breath, both of you panting, his face flushed, eyes bright. It’s captivating, and you draw him closer as you bend your head to kiss him again, moving from lips to jaw, biting his neck as he arches against you.  
  
  
“Oh god...I thought I could just be professional, you know, … gah, but you were in my office… all the time…. And I’d see you looking at me… and I wanted- god how I wanted to just... do inappropriate things…. But couldn’t of course, didn’t want to- Oh! Didn’t want, unhhh… thought you’d hex me… still think you might hex me!”  
  
  
“Potter-”  
  
  
“Jesus, don’t hex me….. Fuck! Just want to… yeah, like that. Just- can we just…. Oh god!”  
  
  
You hoist him up to sit on the desk surface but his hands never stop roaming over your body. You go back to his neck, finally attacking those cords of muscle that have driven you to distraction these long months. He clings to you like a limpet, legs wrapped very firmly around your waist even as you run your hands along his torso, unbuttoning his waistcoat and pulling his shirt out of his trousers, bunching up the fabric to expose delicious flesh.  
  
  
“No more talking, Potter.”  
  
  
“Okay, okay yeah, just like that. No more talking, yeah, no, talking is bad… ohhhhhhh-”  
  
  
“Shut UP, Potter…”  
  
  
“Shutting up…. gonna shut up right now-”  
  
  
He grabs your hair and kisses you, first biting at your lips and then softer but no less insistent, his hands running everywhere along your body and when did you ever think that you could have this, that this could ever be yours?  
  
  
And you thank whichever gods you’ve managed to please in your miserable life for having this moment.  
  
  
He tries to unbutton your trousers but his hands are shaking so much, it’s surprising to see him so undone.  
  
  
“Christ, buttons, what _possible_ use can they be? Gah, it’s like we’ve forgotten how to be wizards, for the love of-” and without another word, your trousers are gone in the very next breath, as are his.  
  
  
You arch towards him as his magic cascades over you, your bodies pressed together, skin to skin, the heat and smell of his arousal making you a bit light headed, or maybe that’s the kissing. You move together, the slick slide of precome easing the glide of your erections. Your legs shake and you still don’t know what to do with your hands, finally winding them into his hair the way you’ve wanted to do for so long. He moans, an absolutely filthy sound as he hooks his heels behind your arse, pulling you against him and arching up to meet you, erections grinding against each other in a most delicious friction.  
  
  
The buildup is ridiculously fast, your entire body reacting to his, the pleasure cresting so quickly that it’s all you can do to catch your breath, you’re right at the edge, and all too soon he’s crying out as he spills between you, the pulsing heat taking you right behind him, and you’re shuddering….. can’t stop… your body taking over and rejoicing in all the ways it can… every sense somehow brighter and sharper and… more.  
  
  
You slowly come back to yourself, still wrapped tightly by Harry’s legs, even as he releases you to collapse on the desk in a messy sprawl. He looks thoroughly debauched; his hair a mess, glasses askew, tie undone and hanging loosely from his neck, clothes rumpled, and you very much approve. You lean heavily against the desk top, just beginning to reel in the fractured parts of your mind enough that you can form rational thought, heart still crashing through your ribs as though it’ll never have enough again, never beat hard enough again, never….. never know this kind of joy again.  
  
  
He runs his hands over his face, his torso shaking, and after a while, you realize that he’s laughing. For an awful moment you think that you’re the butt of a terrible, horrible joke, some sort of prank, although he made the first move, he said all those things, and why would someone like him-  
  
  
“Oh my god, that was incredible! I can’t- I can’t even form words for how brilliant that was.”  
  
  
You almost collapse from the relief, of knowing that it wasn’t all a mistake. You carefully cast Cleaning Charms over both of you and the desk, hell, even the floor, and Summon both pairs of trousers. He struggles into a seated position once more, pulling you close and burying his nose in your neck while wrapping his arms around your torso.  
  
  
“Severus, I want to do much more of that, and so many other things. Do you think we could discuss this in greater detail tomorrow?”  
  
  
You return his embrace, tilting his head up and kissing him deeply, answering him in no uncertain terms. You draw his bottom lip between your teeth, holding it for a moment before releasing it slowly. His soft huff of arousal is your reward.  
  
  
“If by ‘discuss’, you mean-”  
  
  
“Ohhh, yes, I do indeed mean… this and more.”  
  
  
“I think it's... possible.”  
  
  
“It's the weekend, how about my flat?”  
  
  
“That might be acceptable.”  
  
  
“Looking forward to it.”  
  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
  
~ fin ~

**Author's Note:**

> Images via Imgur
> 
> Harry looking post-shagged and driving Snape to distraction.  
> http://imgur.com/umX03d7
> 
> Those Muggle clothes he wears  
> http://imgur.com/6HDIdOm
> 
>  
> 
> Snape’s obsession about that last button!  
> http://imgur.com/yiPLe82
> 
>  
> 
> Long dress robes/coat of Harry’s  
> http://imgur.com/Z95SHZc


End file.
